


Green Eyes

by deerwantscoffee



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Clan of Three, Cuddling & Snuggling, Eventual Sex, Fluff, Just some cute shit, M/M, Migs Mayfeld POV, Migs is an asshole but we love him anyway, Slow Burn, Tenderness, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, am i making Din touch-starved because i am? who knows, and Migs just might be the man for the job, din is baby, he needs to be protected, just need me some good romance to tide me over, mostly will be a slow burn for a while, no beta i couldnt get anyone to proofread this for me if i tried
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-19 03:20:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29744184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deerwantscoffee/pseuds/deerwantscoffee
Summary: “No, it is not that.” Mando sighs deeply, his gloved fingers flexing stiffly against the sides of the helmet. “I broke my creed by showing my face and the only way I would be allowed to wear my mask again is if there was no one who had seen left breathing.”“I sure hope this is not your way of saying you’re about to shoot me in the back, Mando, because even if I deserve it, it seems like a fucking awful way to go.”“Well, there is another way. If we were to tome-” he starts but Mayfeld whips around to face him, staring him down while shooting another trooper over his shoulder.“Okay, do that, whatever the fuck it is, so we can get outta here.”okay but what if… Bo-Katan defeated Gideon and earned the dark saber, Luke never showed up, the crew figured out another way to deactivate the death troopers, baby got to keep baby, and y’know… Din and Mayfeld got married. haha jk… unless?basically an extensive fix-it with far too much tlc between the new clan of three to be dentist-approved
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda, Din Djarin/Migs Mayfeld, Migs Mayfeld & Grogu | Baby Yoda
Comments: 26
Kudos: 115





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS HIGHLY DERIVED FROM urisarang's So You Accidentally Married a Mando FIC
> 
> link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28702179/chapters/70369593
> 
> So if you notice some similarities, that is why. I loved how they set this concept up, and I really just want to be romanced vicariously through these dumbasses so I did my own little twist.
> 
> I will admit I am writing this with very little direction in mind, other than some goddamn flirting between Brown Eyes and Green Eyes.  
> Meaning, I wrote the first chapter within one evening and I refuse to do a final read through to check for errors. Let me know if you find any! :)

The sound of a blaster firing snaps Mayfeld out of his haze and he glances to his left, watching Mando’s eyes quickly dart between him and the fallen body of Valin Hess. Smoking, the bullet wound draws the attention of the few remaining Imperials in the main commons, shock freezing them to the spot. He and the Mandalorian lock eyes, resolve overtaking them as they immediately stand and fire, dropping the Imps to the ground. Once they were in the clear for the moment, Mayfeld turns to look at the Mandalorian, holding out a discarded trooper helmet.

“You did what you had to do,” he states, his gaze falling immediately, avoiding eye contact with the piercing brown eyes that first caught his attention when Mando took off his mask, “I never saw your face.”

The man, not blood-thirsty droid that he originally thought he was, hesitates, forcing Mayfeld to look up. Their eyes interlock, showing a deep-seated panic interlaced with sorrow, as Mando slowly shakes his head. Sighing, Mayfeld shoves the helmet into the Mandalorian’s chest and turns around, gun at the ready, as the speakers call back-up to the main commons.

“Mando, seriously, now is not the time for this bantha shit. We got the information we needed and we have more incoming any moment now. We need to secure a way out, now.”

“I- I can’t.” he murmurs, pained, as Mayfeld takes out a trooper heading towards them from across the hanger before glancing back at the man, who is now staring at the visor of the helmet.

“What the fuck do you mean you can’t? I know these helmets are shit and you can’t see shit through them, but you can’t operate in your usual man-hunting terror mode if people can see your face. So, just suck it up and put it on.”

“No, it is not that.” Mando sighs deeply, his gloved fingers flexing stiffly against the sides of the helmet. “I broke my creed by showing my face and the only way I would be allowed to wear my mask again is if there was no one who had seen it left breathing.”

“I sure hope this is not your way of saying you’re about to shoot me in the back, Mando, because even if I deserve it, it seems like a fucking awful way to go.”

“Well, there is another way. If we were to tome-” he starts, but Mayfeld whips around to face him, staring him down while shooting another trooper over his shoulder.

“Okay, do that, whatever the fuck it is, so we can get outta here.”

“But-”

“Look, I’ll admit I don’t get this creed shit but I really do not want to die by Imperial hands, so whatever tome is, it can’t be much worse than being shot at by fuckards with a brainwashed vengeance. So, let’s do it.”

Mando glances at Mayfeld then over his shoulder before his gaze hardens as he quickly raises his blaster, aiming towards him. Mayfeld eyes widen and he ducks just as the Mandalorian fires.

“What the fuck, Mando!”

Rolling his brown eyes, he gestures behind Mayfeld as he hears another trooper drop to the floor. Wincing, Mayfeld stands again, feeling bad for thinking the worst of perhaps the most honorable man he has ever met. Which, granted, doesn’t set much of a precedent given his Imperial past and criminal record.

A moment passes as the two stare each other down. Acceptance and a grimace crosses the Mandalorian's face and Mayfeld notes that he’ll really have to work on his Sabacc face. Suddenly, Mando takes a step closer to him and grips Mayfeld’s forearm, knocking the breath out of the sharpshooter’s lungs at the serious look in his endless brown eyes. Has Mayfeld mentioned that his eyes were brown? He couldn’t remember, to be honest. Hesitantly, Mayfeld returns the motion, blinking questioningly.

Mando leans his head closer, never breaking eye contact, and Mayfeld swallows, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. The man’s forehead gently presses against his own, and Mando’s eyes slide closed. A sweet warmth seizes Mayfeld, this innocent, intimate form of physical contact that he hasn’t engaged in since, well, ever. The only times he would allow anyone to get close to him would be for a hungry, passionate kiss that always led to sex and while that shit is all well and good, this feels more real, despite the initiator being someone who got him thrown in jail not too long ago. Oh, he definitely deserved that, but this? This is something Mayfeld thought he’d never be allowed to indulge in.

After what felt like a hour-long therapy session, but was actually just a moment, Mando pulled back and put the fucking helmet back on.

As an Imperial sharpshooter, Mayfeld was trained to maintain focus and disconnection while in battle. Despite this, the only thing he could focus on for the past fifteen minutes was those brown eyes and the shit trooper visor that now hid them from Mayfeld. Fighting back to back, he and Mando managed to shoot their way to the roof and be extracted by the other Mando with the weird-ass ship. He’ll have to ask what happened to the junkpile that the Mandalorian reverently called the Razor Crest, because if he knew Mando, which he basically doesn’t, he knows he’d never willingly fly in anything but his own ship. Granted, if things were as desperate as they seemed to be, Mayfeld wouldn’t doubt Mando would give in and fly in whatever was quickest to get to the little Green Bean thing- pet? child? -that was imprisoned. Whatever sick kind of fuck would steal a tiny kid from its father deserved to be hunted for sport by two Mandos, a scary Officer chick, and a goddamn sniper.

Anyway, those eyes. And whatever that fucking devastating forehead touch that meant tame or whatever and allowed Mando to put his helmet back on. That’s what he shouldn’t have been focusing on in the heat of battle but there he was, dramatically taking down troopers left and right for those brown eyes. Shit, no, for revenge. Yeah, that sounds right. Revenge for Operation Cinder and all the other tragedies that came from Burnin Konn. Blowing a hole in that Imp base felt right. Felt like the first good thing he’s done in years. Damn, just being near the fucking honor-abundant Mandalorian makes Mayfeld more conscious of his wrong-doings.

Speaking of said Mandalorian, he is currently sitting across from him in the hull of the weird-ass ship, posture as perfect as always, now clad in his regular Beskar armour. Leaning back in his seat, Mayfeld crosses his arms and squints at the stoic figure, trying to guess what expression he is making based purely on his body language and what little he has seen of his face. Scratch that, not seen. He may not know what tame- tome? -is, but he sure as hell knows he made a promise that he ‘saw nothing.’ Those brown eyes make it hard though. Just the thought of his intense stare when the Mandalorian first stepped towards him to grip his forearm has him averting his gaze and rubbing a hand against his rough cheek, his stubble reminding him of the small moustache that graced Mando’s upper lip. Who in their right mind kept their facial hair well kept when they refuse to take their mask off in front of people? Who gives this man the right to hide his handsome-

“I need to contact Cara.” Mando says suddenly, rising from his seat once the ship levels out. Blinking rapidly, Mayfeld nods, embarrassed to seemingly be caught thinking about the armoured god.

As they step off the ship, Mayfeld groans to himself as he notices the cop and the sniper approaching. Well, guess his vacation is over. Looks like it is back to the junkyard for him. However, as she gets closer, he notices her eyes flashing between him and Mando, who is standing slightly in front of him, and if he didn’t know any better, he would say her smile turns into a teasing grin. The sniper nods at them and enters the ship, supposedly to go talk to the green Mando who she seem to be in cahoots with.

“I leave you alone for what, an hour?” she starts, crossing her arms and looking at Mando, “And you turn around and get-”

“It does not matter right now, Cara. I just need to know if I can ask him.”

Mayfeld looks between the two intimidating figures, eyebrow raised and arms crossed. Eventually, the cop concedes and nods. Mando turns to him and he sighs, his modulated voice coming out warped.

“I know this is a lot to ask, but you would get something out of it too if you were willing to come with…”

“Come with?”

“Us. To get the child.”

“Let me get this straight. You want me to storm a fucking Moff’s ship with a ragtime group of bounty hunters and assassins to rescue a fucking Green Bean? You’re crazy. Absolutely fucking insane.”

The cop grimaces and growls at him through barred teeth, “If you did, you would be cleared of your record and could walk away from this a free man.”

“I’m fucking in.”

The battle is won and the ship is theirs. Bo-Katan, another random Mandalorian that Mando somehow managed to recruit who brought her own Mando sidekick, once reaching the bridge and discovering that the Moff was not there, immediately hunted him and Mando down, quickly defeating the distracted Moff in one-on-one combat, therefore earning the right to the fucking glow-y black sword thing. Or something like that. Mayfeld doesn’t really know at this point. It has been non-stop going from the moment he was picked up from the junkyard and sleep has been a rare commodity. Running at ten percent now that the danger seems to have finally died down, Mayfeld only knows three things. The Green Bean is back with Mando, Moff Gideon and his limited forces are defeated, and the dark troopers are deactivated due to the control panel located in the bridge. He couldn’t give less of a shit about the rest. Well, maybe one other thing: those goddamn brown eyes.

Collapsing in a seat by one of the security monitors, Mayfeld observes Mando and the Green Bean. The gentle way the man holds the child up to his helmet, the way the tiny tot places its claws on either side of it, cooing softly. The pure domesticity sends a warm feeling through Mayfeld and he has to close his eyes to stop himself from wanting to be a part of that. From wanting to be held close. From wanting Mando.

With the Moff in cuffs and under the close watch of the cop, Bo-Katan takes charge, explaining their plan for the light cruiser they captured. Mayfeld tunes her out, instead watching Mando listen to her. He noticed Mando stiffening whenever she mentions Mandalore, supposedly the deserted home planet of all Mando’s. Must just be another weird creed thing that Mayfeld will never pretend to understand.

Finally, Bo-Katan finishes her spiel and asks the group if they need anything. The sniper waves her off, mentioning offhandedly that the green Mando, Boba Fett, will be back soon to pick her up. The cop requests a spare shuttle to deliver the Moff to the New Republic once they can get the ship cleared as non-Imperial. Mayfeld wonders what he could ask for, but stays quiet, knowing he’s overstaying his welcome as it is. The group turns to Mando, who seems to suddenly realize he is supposed to have a request but is too preoccupied with the dozing Green Bean in his arms to have been thinking this through. Mayfeld feels himself smile fondly and quickly schools his face into a more neutral, if not straight out scowling, expression.

“Mando, if you want to come back to Nevarro with me, Karga and I could set you up with a nice little house that you and your clan would be safe in.” the cop states, grinning cheekily at the man and glancing at Mayfeld.

The man in question stiffens, turning to face Mayfeld.

“Thank you for the offer, Cara. I just need time to consider.” he replies, graciously, cuddling the child closely.

“Take all the time you need, it will take a few cycles at least to get the shuttle registered with the New Republic.”

“There are plenty of empty quarters that you are more than willing to stay in until the clearance is complete. As I understand it, Cara will need one and Mando, Mayfeld, and the child will need one.” Bo-Katan speaks up, clearly trying to avoid offering more ships.

Blinking awkwardly at the blue-clad Mandalorian, Mayfeld shakes his head. “If there are plenty, then why are Mando and I sharing?”

“You are tome, are you not? Why would you need separate quarters?”

“Of course,” Mando inserts, “One quarter is plenty. Thank you, Bo-Katan. Ma- Migs, let us locate a room that will accommodate the three of us.”

Mayfeld shrugs, deeming the argument not worth it, says goodnight to the remaining group, and follows the armour-clad man out the room, towards a row of quarters located along the port side. They walk in silence for a few minutes, moving as far away from the bridge as possible while still remaining on the ship. Sleepily, Mayfeld watches Mando’s Beskar shine in the sharp light of the Imperial ship, bumping into him when he abruptly comes to a stop at an inconspicuous door lining the left wall. Mando’s visor turns on him, and if Mayfeld focused hard enough, he swore he could see a pair of glimmering brown eyes beneath it. His gloved hand reaches towards the door’s controls and Mayfeld watches his movements closely. The door slides open quickly and Mando ushers Mayfeld into the room. His eyes immediately land on the most prominent feature of the decently sized quarters. A single decently-sized, for an Imperial that is, bed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, let me get this straight. I somehow managed to, one, get out of prison, two, get revenge for Operation Cinder, and three, get married to perhaps the most fucking attractive, soft, and goddamn deadly man I’ve ever met in the span of one day?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i haven't gotten to write in a character's voice similar to Mayfeld's in such a long time that this genuinely is a incredible writing exercise. thank you so much for enjoying what i have managed so far and i hope you stay tuned for more <3
> 
> leave a comment please they are my bloodline

The quiet stretches on for more than a reasonable amount of time as Mayfeld and the Mandalorian stare at the bed. Clearing his throat awkwardly, Mayfeld takes off his weapon holsters, setting them down on the slab of metal the Imps call a desk before turning toward Mando, only to be caught off guard for what felt like the twentieth time these past few days. There the Mandalorian stood, barefaced, his Beskar helmet cradled in one hand and the Green Bean curled up against his chest in the other. And, of fucking course, the first thing Mayfeld noticed was his eyes. Those goddamn, irritatingly captivating, brown eyes.

“Woah, woah, Brown Eyes, what the hell are you doing?” Mayfeld drops his gaze to the child in the man’s arms as soon as he is able to stop staring at his delicately soft eyes.

“We are tome, it is unheard of to cover my face in front of you.” Mando carefully says, shuffling a step or two closer to him, “Do you know where there might be an extra blanket in here?”

“Okay, I guess now is the time to finally ask, what the fuck did I agree to?”

Sighing, Mando looks down at the Green Bean and his eyes soften further before he looks up, locking eyes with Mayfeld. The shock of being able to see him, desperately endless expressions that fly across his enticing features in an instant, rattles Mayfeld.

“Tome, in my creed, is a joining, a marriage,” he replies, averting his gaze as Mayfeld blinks rapidly, trying to absorb this, “We are now a clan, a clan of three, now that I have Grogu back.”

“That is a fucking lot to dump on me, Mando,” Mayfeld groans, running a hand across his face, “First things first, fucking Grogu? That’s what the Green Bean is named?”

“Yes, I discovered it when we were searching for a Jedi.”

“Jedi? Weren’t they all wiped out or something?”

This may not be the most pressing matter to discuss, but Mayfeld has only ever been good at dealing with one thing at a time, and the Green Bean seems to be a safe topic now that he is back in his father’s arms. Then again, does this mean Mayfeld is his father as well? Shit. That was not something he needed to worry about right now so he shook his head to clear his thoughts.

“Most of them, the survivors are scarce and in hiding, much like Mandalorians.”

“Okay,” Mayfeld drawls, reaching out to place a hand on Mando’s helmet, “So, explain this shit again?”

The Mandalorian eyes Mayfeld’s hand and drops his head, embarrassed.

“When we did the Keldabe, we became bonded, technically married, as described in many other cultures. You restored my honor by agreeing to become tome, allowing me to wear my mask again. Only those who are tome can see the other's face. I know that this is the last thing you could want, and I apologize, but I am forever grateful for it.”

“So, let me get this straight. I somehow managed to, one, get out of prison, two, get revenge for Operation Cinder, and three, get married to perhaps the most fucking attractive, soft, and goddamn deadly man I’ve ever met in the span of one day?”

Mando drops his helmet at his words, and Mayfeld's hand falls onto his forearm. He steps closer, using his grip on Mando’s arm to hold him still as he looks from eye to eye, gently touching his forehead to the other man’s.

“This may not be the way in which I had hoped I got married, but I can’t say it was the worst,” he murmurs, his words a breath against the Mandalorian’s lips. His heart does a quick marathon and attempts to kill him as the man’s eyes slide closed. Quickly taking a step back and releasing his hold on his arm when the urge to kiss him became overwhelming, Mayfeld continues, “So! What’s that you said about an extra blanket?”

The Mandalorian’s eyes slowly blink open and he sputters quietly. His entire body looks tense even through the thick Beskar. Mayfeld wonders what his body looks like without the armour. No, okay, nevermind, not what he should be thinking about right now. Green Bea- Grogu, stirs in his sleep before tucking his face closer and settling down again, almost as if he felt his father’s apparent discomfort. Mayfeld immediately feels guilty, it finally setting in that Mando only married him to regain his honor. It’s not like the man actually cares for him, nevertheless wants Mayfeld to touch him, especially given that this was the same man who basically hunted him for sport in a darkened prisoner transport before easily beating his ass and throwing him in jail. Damn, that’s kinda hot, now that he thinks about it as his- should he refer to him as his husband? -partner, he’ll say for now, dedicated his focus on him alone. Mayfeld hesitates to call it foreplay but he can’t deny that the experience didn’t fuel his wet dreams for months after. Again, not something he should be thinking about when it seems that the two will be sharing a bed for the foreseeable future. Fuck, how did this happen again?

“Do you know where an extra blanket might be stored? For me and Grogu?”

“I can understand why Grogu would need an extra blanket, but why would you? The bed already has one.”

“I am not expecting you to sleep on the ground. This whole situation is my fault and I refuse to make you do as such.”

Mayfeld could easily argue that it was, in fact, not at all Mando’s fault, but his. In his fear of being recognized by the demon known as his former commander, he forced the Mandalorian’s hand to remove his mask and be seen and it was his fault that the mission turned sideways and they had to shoot their way out of the facility. He realizes what Mando said a moment later and immediately blushes. Fuck his red hair and fair skin excitably displaying his inner turmoil. Mayfeld had assumed that they would be sharing a bed, being married and all, but the other man seems to be so vehemently against it that it never even crossed his mind as a possibility.

Relying on his inherent ability to talk his way out of anything, Mayfeld rolls his eyes and crosses the room to a small wardrobe along the side wall while smoothly saying, “Nah, you take the bed, I doubt you’ve had much sleep since the Green Bean was taken. I can brave a few nights on the floor for your sake.”

“I cannot allow that-”

“Fuck your honor, fuck your creed or whatever it is that makes you so willing to put others before you, take the fucking goddamn bed or so help me I will make you.”

They both knew that was a bit of an overstatement as there was no way in hell that Mayfeld would be able to stop Mando from doing what he pleases. Standing his ground as he finds a blanket and tosses it onto the floor, as far away from the bed as he can manage in the small room, the Mandalorian finally concedes, picking his helmet up and taking a few steps towards the bed, setting the sleeping Grogu near the head of the bed and his helmet on the metal desk. Mayfeld sits on the desk chair, facing Mando, to remove his shoes but freezes when the man starts to take off his pauldrons and chest plate. His eyes follow the strong collarbone he displays, even through the blacks Mando wears under the Beskar. His arms reach behind him to remove his cape and Mayfeld is suddenly jealous of the inanimate object as he gently caresses the material and folds it, delicately placing it by his mask. The strong, lean body that is slowly becoming more obvious as Mando removes each piece of armour nearly makes Mayfeld salivate, which is ridiculously by itself, as he has seen much stronger and buffer people naked. Hell, the man in front of him is even still wearing a layer of clothes but whether it is because he is perhaps the only person to ever see this or if it is because this man is his partner, Mayfeld feels hotter than he has felt in a long time.

Averting his eyes, Mayfeld quickly sheds his shoes and yawns deeply, the day's events catching up to him again. He may not be as young as he used to be, but Mayfeld believes he wasn’t lying when he said he could brave a few nights on the floor, despite the dangers of back aches. Casually laying down, facing away from the still undressing man, Mayfeld covers himself with the blanket he procured and rests his head on his folded elbow. He’ll deal with whatever pain he develops in the morning.

Minutes later, after Mando dimmed the lights and crawled into the bed, Mayfeld still hasn’t fallen asleep. Tossing and turning on the metal ground, Mayfeld sighs to himself and lightly bangs his head against the floor.

“Come over here,” Mando mutters from the bed, “You are never going to fall asleep on that floor and there is plenty of room for two, even with Grogu.”

Blushing, Mayfeld shakes his head in the dark.

“Nah, it’s okay. I’m used to this shit.”

“But you should not have to be. Come here.”

Those few words decide for him. Mayfeld is going to woo this goddamn perfect man until he doesn’t regret marrying him. He deserves someone who cares for him as much as he cares for others and Mayfeld might not be the obvious choice but he doesn’t see why he can’t be. Slowly standing, Mayfeld drags the blanket over to the bed with him, staring at the man curled around Grogu. Even with his perfect body covered by the covers, the man’s curly hair pressed against the pillow makes Mayfeld’s heart ache. Pushing that to the back of his mind, Mayfeld joins him in the bed, wrapping the blanket delicately around the little Green Bean before turning on his back, closing his eyes, and willingly himself into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoopsie, wrote this after taking my nightly anti-depressants so i was pretty drowsy by the end. let me know if you spot any mistakes!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good morning to you too, Mando.” Mayfeld smiles cheekily when he blinks questioningly at the prone man below him who is actually not attacking him. Letting his hand fall from the man’s curls, Mayfeld lets it land on the arm on his chest.
> 
> Sheepishly, he replies, “Din.”
> 
> “Huh?”
> 
> “Din Djarin. My name,” he says, “You know my face, you should know my name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote the first two pages and then forgot about it for a few days, whoops.
> 
> anyway more bad cutesy shitty content for y'all (and by y'all i mean me, this is pandering to me and me only).
> 
> please enjoy, my brain needs your praise to release serotonin.

Mayfeld hasn’t slept that soundly or for that long in god knows how long. The weariness that started to seem like it resided in his bones has been sated and his eyes open slowly, the dull glow of the Imperial lights abrasive. A warm weight pressed against his neck comes into his consciousness and Mayfeld throws his hand up, startled, feeling a mop of curly brown hair. Taking in a sharp breath, Mayfeld instinctively threads his fingers into the hair, realizing that Mando has shifted towards him in their sleep and his nose is now buried in Mayfeld’s neck. The next thing that registers is how soft his curls are. What the actual fuck, how is this man so perfect? Mayfeld closes his eyes and leans towards the Mandalorian, rubbing his fingers along his scalp. A deep rumble begins in his chest, and Mayfeld smiles, content. 

Mando sighs deeply and clenches his hand into Mayfeld’s shirt, bunching up the material, then suddenly pins the man down by throwing one leg over his hips and pressing his arm against his chest. His eyes flash, his mouth set into a hard grimace, and Mayfeld realizes that that probably wasn’t the best way to wake up a person whose weapons are part of their religion.

“Good morning to you too, Mando.” Mayfeld smiles cheekily when he blinks questioningly at the prone man below him who is actually not attacking him. Letting his hand fall from the man’s curls, Mayfeld lets it land on the arm on his chest.

Sheepishly, he replies, “Din.”

“Huh?”

“Din Djarin. My name,” he says, “You know my face, you should know my name.”

Mayfeld’s smile turns soft as he stares into Mand- Din’s brown eyes. That’ll take a while to get used to. But, then again, they will have all the time in the world to get used to each other. Din’s eyes glance at his arm and Mayfeld’s hand holding it still. His thumb slowly traces circles along Din’s wrist and he feels a shiver run down the man’s body, as he is still balanced above him.

A small gurgle interrupts their frozen state and Din quickly sits up, fully straddling him to look over his shoulder at the source of the noise. Mayfeld feels blood rushing to both his face and his dick, as the strong chested man towers above him and his jawline becomes sharp. Damn, Mayfeld wants to cut himself on that and he believes someday, he will be allowed to. His hand moves to Din’s thigh, gripping it lightly to also look around the man at the Green Bean that has drawn their attention from across the room, where he is currently pointing at the door. Din fidgets underneath his palm.

“What is it, Grogu?” he asks and in response, the kid grumbles loudly.

The two men hesitate, and Mayfeld hopes that Din wants to stay as they are for the rest of time as much as he does. After a moment, he chuckles softly and gets off of Mayfeld, succinctly standing and stretching his arms above his head. The small glimpse of tan skin that is revealed as the fabric of Din’s top is pulled up forces Mayfeld to sit up and cover his lap with the blanket spread haphazardly across the bed. 

“You hungry, kid? I am sure we can find something for you to eat on this ship.” As he talks, Din quickly kits up, replacing his armour and swiftly picking up the Green Bean. “Do you want to come with us, Mayfeld?”

“Migs. Please call me Migs, Din.”

The Mandalorians’s eyes turn on him, full of a deep emotion that Migs can’t even begin to place. He crosses the room in two long strides and presses his forehead against the sitting man’s as the kid places his hand on his cheek, cooing softly. A sob threatens to wrack Mig’s body so he closes his eyes and reaches his hand behind Din’s neck, to thread his fingers into the base of his hair. The touch alone is more than he ever thought he deserved, especially from such an incredible man.

Din stills under his touch and presses against him harder, taking a deep breath, and whispering, “Anything, Migs,” while returning the neck hold. Just as suddenly as he initiated the touch, Din pulls away, stepping towards the metal desk to retrieve his helmet. Migs takes this time to collect his breath.

“And no, I’m going to look for a goddamn ‘fresher and maybe a change of clothes. I don’t know about you but I’ve been wearing this for far too long.”

Nodding, Din turns to look at him before slipping the helmet over his head. Migs feels a sharp pang in his chest, almost like he was missing something once the man’s piercing, but soft, brown eyes were covered. Migs forces a smile and turns to the small cabinet to start his search. When he turns back around, towel and bottoms in hand, Din was gone.

No more than twenty minutes later, a clean set of basic clothes adorning his freshly scrubbed skin, Migs wanders back into their room, managing to avoid the other people on the ship and promptly collapses on the bed. The warmth that burned under his skin did not stop as the cold water poured down his back. Just the thought of Din hovering over him, his unarmored body pressed against his, makes Migs throw his head back and link his fingers together behind his neck.

The door quietly slides open and Migs turns to the noise, meeting the t-visor of Din’s helmet as he stands completely still in the doorway. Clearing his throat, Migs drops his hands. Somewhere in the back of his consciousness, Migs notices the kid plopping down by the bed and playing with a small, metal ball. Din’s posture gives nothing away so Migs stands and steps towards the metal desk, collecting the items he had left there earlier.

“New blacks, a towell, and even some soap. This ship is well stocked for a bunch of fucking Imps,” Migs tosses over his shoulder, hiding the heat in his cheeks, “‘Fresher is down the hall and the first door after you take a left, that is, if you want to take a shower. I don’t know shit about your creed and whatever, but I’m sure even you shower sometimes. Fuck, I mean, not that you smell bad or anything, it’s just-”

“Migs-”

“I don’t know the last time you had the chance to, and I mean, you smell great, your hair is still soft, I mean, I should know, having slept with you last night-”

“Migs.”

“Fuck, not like that. Literally. We literally just slept. Well, I mean, we cuddled and shit. I don’t know if cuddling is a word I should use in reference to a Mandalorian, and it’s not like I didn’t like it or anything-”

“Migs!”

He turns around and inhales sharply, making eye contact with Din who is far closer to him than he was a moment ago. A gloved hand is resting on Migs' bicep and the other is holding his helmet against his side.

“I appreciate it.”

His eyes look so goddamn sincere. Migs can’t remember the last time someone thanked him, and fucking sincerely? Forget about it. Being a sharpshooter for the Empire and then immediately becoming a mostly-illegal mercenary doesn’t leave a lot of room for people to be genuinely thankful for him and his efforts.

“Anytime,” he said, and for the first time, Migs meant it. He realized he would do anything, at any moment, for this fucking man, and he wouldn’t question it.

“Here, this is the closest thing I could find to breakfast on this ship,” Din said, revealing a ration bar that he had stored in one of his canisters attached to his belt. Noticing that Din still hasn’t removed his hand from Migs arm, he takes a step closer, takes the bar, and smirks, biting a chunk of it off and pretending to chew thoughtfully.

“The bland taste and stiff texture in this ration bar is excellent, the subtle hints of old socks really enhances the experience, you must try it,” Migs teases, holding out the bar to Din’s lips. The man looks down his nose at the ration, color lightly staining his cheeks, and takes a small bite, locking eyes with him. Migs watches his jaw work, then his throat swallowing, and regrets his tease immensely. This was far too much to take in at once, from less than a foot away, no-less. Blood rushes to opposite ends of his body, his blush deepening and his dick stiffening. He quickly steps back, taking another bite of the ration bar, and murmurs a “thank you” over his shoulder as he returns to the metal desk.

“Here, I’m sure you’re itching to change clothes at least. I can watch the Green Bean, if you want.”

For a moment, there is no response and Migs tenses, suddenly feeling that he might have overstepped somewhere. He feels a presence on his right and dips his head, sliding the clothes towards the man. A hand rests on his, stopping his retreat, and Migs takes a deep breath.

“Are you sure? That is a lot to ask of you.”

“Hey, we’re tome, clan of three, remember? I’m prepared to pull my weight with this kid.”

Shakily, Din’s hand clenches and Migs eyes are drawn to his. Those goddamn brown eyes say everything Din is struggling to. Gratefulness, affection, and something deeper penetrates Migs to the core, rocking him forwards, closer to the man. He stumbles, falling against him, and lets his head fall onto strong shoulders. Migs feels more than hears the gasp that is torn from Din’s throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please ignore the quick ending and any grammatical errors, i realized i had an early morning shift far too late.
> 
> i will proofread this after work, thank you for your patience/just-not-caring-in-general lmao
> 
> <3 <3 <3


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